


if we loved again (i swear i'd love you right)

by salazarsslytherin



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Hopeful Ending, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Maycury Week, Memory Loss, Post-Break Up, not between brian and freddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 02:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20520797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarsslytherin/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: “Roger,” Brian snaps.  “Tell me what’s wrong.  Is Freddie okay?”“He’s lost a lot of memories,” Roger says bluntly.  “About five years or so, we think.  Maybe six?  He doesn’t know Queen split up.  He doesn’t know about Deaky.  He thinks…”Brian doesn’t need him to finish.  Five years ago, he’d been more happy than he could fathom.  They’d been on top of the world, dominating in the charts, jetting off around the world to play to thousands of adoring fans and falling into bed together each night, so giddy and in love Brian had never dreamed anything might ruin it.





	if we loved again (i swear i'd love you right)

It’s been a while since he saw him. A long while, actually. They’d tried to keep things as normal as possible, tried to stay friends but it had just been too hard. The way Freddie would look at him, heartbroken, the soft way his hand used to automatically find Brian’s only to be snatched away when he suddenly remembered. The careful way they would speak to each other, like strangers.

It was too hard.

They saw each other when they had to, when everyone was together, and they...coped. Not well, in Brian’s case, and probably not in Freddie’s either. But they coped.

It’s been a while, but the phone call still makes the bottom drop out of Brian’s world. 

“He’s…_what_?” Brian has to grip the doorframe to keep upright. “What happened? Jesus fuck Rog, is he okay?”

“He’s…I mean, he’s not going to die,” Roger says carefully. He sounds exhausted, his voice gritty and quiet down the phone line. 

“What the fuck does that mean, he’s not going to die?” Brian demands.

“He’s not in a critical condition or anything like that any more,” Roger says. “Physically he’s going to be fine. But there’s a…a complication. That’s why I called _you_. He keeps asking for you.”

Brian’s cold all over. “What? Why?” His voice is thin and weak even to his own ears. 

Roger’s sigh rattles across the connection. “It might not be permanent,” he says.

“_Roger_,” Brian snaps. “Tell me what’s wrong. Is Freddie okay?”

“He’s lost a lot of memories,” Roger says bluntly. “About five years or so, we think. Maybe six? He doesn’t know Queen split up. He doesn’t know about Deaky. He thinks…”

Brian doesn’t need him to finish. Five years ago, he’d been more happy than he could fathom. They’d been on top of the world, dominating in the charts, jetting off around the world to play to thousands of adoring fans and falling into bed together each night, so giddy and in love Brian had never dreamed anything might ruin it. That _he_ might ruin it.

He has to swallow, hard.

“Look, I think you should come, Brian,” Roger says steadily. “He’s been beside himself wondering where you are.”

“I can’t,” Brian says hoarsely, shaking his head. “I can’t, Rog.”

“I know it’s not going to be easy but he’s been _hurt_, Brian, this could have been really bad. We’re so fucking lucky, do you even realise? We could have _lost_ him.”

Brian’s silent. What does it matter to him? He lost Freddie long ago. 

“Brian.” Roger’s voice is stern, hauling him back before he can disappear too far inside his own head. “You have to come. He won’t listen to anybody else.”

“And tell him what?” Brian asks desperately.

Roger lets out a breath. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” he allows. “But I think it’s best coming from you. He wants to see you. Fuck, he _needs_ to see you. How would you feel if it was you, huh?”

“We’re not—”

“Not _now_, no,” Roger cuts him off. “But what if it had happened back then? If you’d been in an accident all those years ago and when you woke up Freddie was nowhere to be found no matter how much you asked for him?”

The idea of it cleaves Brian in two but it doesn’t make it any easier to face what he knows he has to do.

“Rog…”

“No, fuck you, Brian,” Roger says roughly. “You _owe_ him this, after…after _everything_ you’ve done.”

Brian closes his eyes. He knows it’s the truth, but how can he go? How can he see Freddie again after all this time? How can he tell him again, when it nearly destroyed him the first time?

“We’re at Queen Square.”

None of them note the irony of the name. 

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Roger hangs up without another word, without giving Brian a chance to reject the assumption, just leaves him listening to the dial tone. 

***

Brian barely sleeps all night, but that’s nothing new. He drinks a bit and smokes half a cigarette on his back porch, staring up at the clouds overhead as they drift past the moon. 

He used to sit with Freddie out here when the sky was clear. Freddie would complain, wrapped in three blankets and still shivering, but he’d sit with Brian for hours on end, sometimes. Just because. Because he wanted to be with Brian and Brian wanted to be outside. 

Brian remembers things like that, sometimes. Less as time goes on, but he remembers when he looks back all the little ways Freddie used to silently show him he loved him and Brian had just been too blind to see, too wrapped up in his own insecurities to realise what was right in front of him and always had been. 

Too wrapped up in himself to realise that for all the times Freddie used to reach out, Brian rarely reached back. 

Brian’s tortured himself for nearly two years with thoughts like that. Shut himself away, kept his head down. He’s never been back to the studio. His guitar is gathering dust somewhere in the basement, his record player untouched for almost as long. He rarely even puts the radio on anymore. Music only reminds him of Freddie. Sometimes he hears a Queen song—it’s unavoidable but it cuts, deep. Brian can’t...he can’t listen to him. 

The thing is...Freddie wasn’t perfect. It hadn’t all been roses and smiles. In fact it hadn’t been much of that at all, especially toward the end. But Brian knew Freddie better than anyone, better than himself; he’d known every piece of Freddie long before they’d kissed for the first time. He knew what sort of creature he was trying to trap between his palms. Brian had never expected him to stay.

Maybe that was why he’d done it; maybe he just couldn’t bear the thought of Freddie doing it first. 

Maybe he’s just an asshole and never deserved those perfect times with Freddie, anyway.

Brian stubs out his cigarette when it smolders down to the filter and burns his thumb, but he doesn’t go back inside.

He won’t sleep, anyway.

***

It’s nearly impossible to find somewhere to park at Queen Square but it’s not busy when Brian walks inside. 

It’s a hospital like every other; unobtrusive but somehow still unsettling, nearly empty but still the _impression_ of hustle and bustle. The muted tang of a thousand emotions that cups of bad machine coffee will never soothe away. 

Brian makes himself ask for Freddie at the front desk before he can convince himself that he’s about to be sick and hide in a bathroom. 

The woman at the desk won’t tell him at first. She begs his pardon and makes a call instead while Brian waits and eyes the doors. It’s not too late to walk away; Freddie has no idea he’s here, it’ll make no difference to him. And it’ll make all the difference to Brian. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say, what he’s supposed to do. He’s tried rehearsing it in his head but it’s no use; all he does it replay back the old memory, relive the old hurt. 

It never really faded, Brian just got better at living with it. 

“He’s upstairs, six-oh-five,” the receptionist tells him eventually, hanging up the phone.

Brian can’t speak so he just gives a blank smile in thanks before departing for the lifts.

There’s still, technically, time to run away. To turn and flee, like the coward he wishes he could be.

Brian punches the button for the sixth floor and it’s only when the door opens on the corridor that he wonders if he ought to have picked something up from the gift shop, a teddy or flowers or something. It would be inappropriate, wouldn’t it? But a coffee or something, at least. He shouldn’t go in empty-handed. Azaleas, and Earl Grey. That’s what Brian always used to bring when he was sorry.

He dithers for a long time in the lift, until the doors nearly shut on him and he jumps out in a panic, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

_Don’t be ridiculous_, he tells himself, looking for room 605. _You can’t take him fucking flowers_. 

The room is easy to spot by virtue of the fact that as Brian approaches, Roger steps out. He spots Brian at once and shuts the door firmly behind him, walking the last few steps to meet him.

He grabs Brian in a hug and squeezes tight, nearly vibrating with tension and anxiety that seems to come off him in waves. Things are rocky between them a lot of the time these days, like Freddie won Roger in the divorce, but for a moment it feels like none of that even happened. 

Brian wraps an arm around his back and lets out his breath. “How is he?”

Roger pulls back and turns away while he wipes his eyes. “Okay. He’s awake. I haven’t...I haven’t really told him anything,” he confesses, unable to meet Brian’s gaze. “I couldn’t.”

Brian gives a humourless laugh. “You want me to go in there and break his heart all over again, then tell him the band broke up, too?” It’ll kill him. It really might. It nearly had the first time, for both of them; they’d lost everything, all at once.

The difference is, it’s Brian’s fault. Brian’s the one who threw it all away. Freddie’s the one who had it taken from him. 

“Don’t tell him about the band,” Roger suggests quietly. “Just...just talk to him. Please don’t run off the first chance you get, he might actually relax if you’re here.”

“He won’t want me to stay.”

Roger gives him a look, because they both know that’s not true. He steps back.

“I’m going to get a coffee or something,” he says, clapping Brian on the arm. “Give you two some time. Talk to him, Brian.”

With that he leaves Brian alone outside the closed door, heart pounding at the thought of stepping inside and facing the man behind it. 

It takes him a long time to work up the nerve. 

Freddie’s awake, as Roger said. He’s propped up on pillows and he looks exhausted, half of his face dark with bruises and stitched cuts, bandaging wrapped around his skull and hair shaved along one side but he’s still, he’s always, he’s never stopped being the most beautiful thing Brian’s ever known. 

Freddie’s face somehow both lights up and crumples when he sees Brian and Brian honestly can’t breathe for a moment, tears welling in his own eyes. He’s momentarily stunned by the onslaught of emotion at seeing him, at seeing him like _this_. 

He can’t cross the room to remove the distance between them.

Freddie notices and nods slowly, closes his eyes. “We’re not together any more, are we?” he whispers. His voice cracks. 

Brian takes in a big, steadying breath that makes his lungs ache and finally steps through the door, letting it close behind him. “No,” he says after a moment, when Freddie’s opened his eyes again. “No, not for a while.” He clears his throat, which is so tight it’s painful. “Did Roger tell you?”

“No,” Freddie says softly. “I could just tell. You would’ve been here.”

He’s right; Brian would have. Had this happened back then, when they were still together, when things were better, nothing could have kept Brian away. He’d have camped day and night, stuck fast to Freddie and never let him go. He wouldn’t have been miles away in a cold, empty bed only to find out from a phone call days later.

“What happened?” Freddie asks. His voice is so quiet.

Brian can’t look at him. He can’t tell him again. 

“Brian.” He’s pleading, tries to sit up. The heart rate monitor spikes and beeps loudly, Brian’s head jerking up at the sound.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Freddie, you need to focus on...on resting and healing up—”

“I want to know,” Freddie cuts him off, his voice rough and desperate. “I _need_ to. Was it me? Was I too much? I’m so sorry, my darling, I—”

“No!” Brian doesn’t mean to raise his voice but he can’t bear Freddie thinking that, not for a second. “No, it wasn’t—it was never, ever you.”

Freddie’s just shaking his head. “I don’t understand.” His voice is wrecked already, trembling as he struggles not to cry. “Brian, it was good. We were good, weren’t we? I love you.”

Brian can’t, he _can’t fucking_ _deal with this_. He turns away and presses his fist to his mouth, shaking his head as well. He knows he deserves it, he does. He deserves to live through this hell every day for what he did, but he can’t put Freddie through it again. God, he’s never forgotten the _look_ on Freddie’s face when he told him. Won’t ever forget that as long as he lives.

“Brian, _please_,” Freddie begs. He’s sitting up properly now, blankets falling away to his hips—his chest is bruised, too, purple. Like his heart’s already bleeding. “Just tell me what I did, we could fix it—”

“I _cheated_ on you, Fred,” Brian snaps suddenly, whirling around to face him. “I cheated on you.” The words ring viciously through the room and Freddie looks like he’s been slapped. 

It’s not the same expression as before. Brian isn’t sure which is worse. He can hear Freddie’s heart on the monitor, sickly fast, and his own is beating in tandem. It’s so cruel, to do this to him twice.

It takes Freddie a long, long time to find his voice again. His face is wet with tears, they must sting his cuts, and he’s slumped back against his pillows, defeated. Devastated.

“Didn’t I...didn’t I forgive you?” he whispers eventually.

Brian gives a hollow laugh and rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger, pinches the bridge of his nose, hard. He wills himself not to cry but it’s no use, it’s no use trying not to cry over a broken heart.

“No,” Brian manages to say. “No, you did.” 

That had been the worst part. The very worst thing. Because Freddie had forgiven him. Oh, he’d been angry. The biggest fight they’d ever had. Freddie had smashed three antique vases and two of Brian’s telescopes. Brian had let him, he’d listened to him rage and stood there when Freddie shoved him and held him when eventually, exhausted, Freddie had fallen onto him in floods of tears.

But he’d forgiven him.

It was Brian who couldn’t forgive himself.

“What does that mean?” Freddie asks carefully. “If I forgave you…”

Brian’s just shaking his head, wishing Freddie wouldn’t ask, wishing he’d never come, knowing he could never have lived with himself if he’d stayed away. 

“We...tried,” he says with difficulty. His throat is painful and aching with trying to hold enough emotion back to let him speak. “But I couldn’t do it. I felt..._feel_...so fucking awful, Fred. I couldn’t…” He couldn’t _let_ Freddie forgive him. He knew he didn’t deserve it. So he’d punished himself in the worst way he knew how and ruined the best thing he’d ever had. “You deserve so much better than that. And I’m…” He swallows. “I’m sorry every fucking day I couldn’t be that for you.”

“But you are,” Freddie says plaintively. His voice is so soft and hurt. “I love you, Brian. We’re good. I can _remember_, we—we just got home. We were back in Japan. _Japan_, Bri. Do you remember? We had an argument because you said I spent too much shopping, and then you bought me the Oribe dish anyway. Don’t you remember?”

And Brian can’t _breathe_ because he _does_ remember. He remembers getting angry with Freddie five years ago because he’d near enough spent their entire combined fortune buying anything that caught his fancy while they were in Tokyo. And Freddie had gotten upset with him but he’d left the little dish behind—Brian could barely believe it cost so much, it was so small. Small enough to fit in his palm. Small as Freddie’s hand when he’d slipped it into Brian’s on the way home, watery eyed and sorry.

“Of course I remember,” Brian says, strained. “I had it shipped home.”

Freddie nods, tearing up. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It was a surprise,” Brian whispers. “I was so sorry for shouting at you.” Freddie _had_ been surprised. He’d been over the moon; they’d spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, after Freddie had spent an hour finding the perfect spot in the house for his newest acquisition. 

“Then what happened?” Freddie breathes. He’s struggling to hold back tears. “I don’t understand.”

“I can’t explain,” Brian says softly. “I don’t know.” He still doesn’t. He doesn’t know what possessed him, what was _wrong_ with him. He’d like to say he was just out of his mind, but he won’t excuse himself so easily. He’d known exactly what he was doing.

Freddie makes a face like he’s in pain and Brian makes a jerky motion, not sure what to do. “Do you need a nurse?” he asks quickly, managing a step closer.

Freddie shakes his head. “No. It’s...it’s not that kind of hurt, darling.” It’s a visible effort for him to swallow but he does, looking back at Brian. “Who was it?”

Brian’s stomach falls through his feet. “Don’t ask me that,” he begs.

“Who was it?” Freddie asks, his voice going thin and reedy. “Brian, _please_.”

Brian just shakes his head. He feels sick.

“Was it a woman?” Freddie asks.

He’d asked that before. That had been the very first thing he said after Brian confessed. _Was it a woman_? The look on Brian’s face must tell him.

Freddie looks away, pained, and can’t stop the next tears from spilling out. He’d always, _always_ been afraid of that. They’d had so many arguments about it in the beginning; Freddie petrified of not being enough, Brian frustrated by his insecurity. 

“I’m sorry, darling,” Freddie says, and Brian chokes as a sob rises up in his chest.

“Don’t. Don’t say that, Freddie.”

“I always—I always knew—you’d need—” Freddie’s breaths are coming short and sharp, catching somewhere in his chest as grief overtakes him. 

“Stop, stop, Freddie _please_!” Brian’s panicking as one of the machines monitoring Freddie goes haywire, beeping loudly, and he’s at the bedside in an instant. “It wasn’t that, _Freddie_—”

He clutches Freddie’s hand but three nurses and a doctor are through the door a second later and Brian’s shoved back out of the way as they swarm, stern voices telling Freddie to _breathe_ and even under all that, Brian can hear him crying. 

They sedate him eventually, when he can’t calm down, and Brian sits outside the door with his head in his hands. 

Roger finds him like that.

Brian doesn’t realise he’s there until there’s a hand on his shoulder and he looks up, startled, to see Roger with two cups of coffee and a hard look on his face. Brian’s expecting to be told to fuck off, but Roger holds out one of the cups and jerks his head. 

“Shall we go for a walk?” he asks instead.

Brian senses that it’s not really a question but more a polite command and gets to his feet. He accepts the coffee and takes a sip, finding it lukewarm and too sugary but at least it’s coffee. He feels exhausted and wrung out and it’s barely lunchtime.

They walk through the corridors, Brian following Roger who seems to know exactly where he’s going, until they get to a door that takes them outside into a little shrubbery. 

They walk along the little gravelled pathways between well-tended bushes and flowerbeds. There are benches spotted every few yards, occasionally occupied by a patient and their family, or doctors taking a break, or sometimes just someone sat alone staring vacantly as bees come and go. 

Brian and Roger don’t stop at any of the benches; they just walk.

“Did you tell him?” Roger asks eventually.

Brian nods. “I told him what I did,” he says quietly. He has to take a deep sip of coffee before his throat will manage anything else. “I didn’t...I didn’t tell him about the band or anything.”

Roger nods as well. “How uh, how did he take it?”

Brian lets out a soft sigh. “He was...hurt. Surprised. Upset. Not angry.”

Roger gives a humourless laugh. “Well he hasn’t been angry about it in a long time.”

Brian’s heart clenches. “Rog, please…”

“Please _what_?” Roger snaps, stopping and whirling to face him. “Please don’t bring it up? Remind you what you did? You ruined _everything_, Brian. Our whole fucking career. But _worse_, you broke his fucking heart. He’s not been the same since. He tries but he’s not. Do you even realise how much he loves you?”

Brian can only nod. He’s squeezing his cup so hard the paper is folding, coffee rising dangerously close to the top. 

“I mean he _still_ loves you,” Roger says pointedly. “Even now. Even after everything. He still cries about you. I still get phone calls at two in the morning, Freddie wondering what he did wrong. How he messed up the _one_ good thing he had going. And no matter how many times I tell him that you’re just a fucking _bastard_, it doesn’t matter.”

Brian has to turn away, pressing his hand to his mouth so he won’t make a sound because it _hurts_, hearing it. As Roger intended it to. 

“What do you want me to say, Roger?” he demands when he can. “I’ve told him I’m sorry. I’ve stayed away. I don’t know what—”

“_Fix it_,” Roger growls at him. “Fucking get over yourself and _fix it_.”

“I _can’t_!”

“You _can_.” Roger gives him a small shove in the chest and Brian goes back a step, shocked. “You are the _only_ one who can, you fucking wanker. Don’t you _get it_? He forgave you. He forgave you a _long_ time ago. And he is _never_ going to get over you. This is all just you, you and your fucking self-pity.”

“It’s not _self-pity_—”

“It _is_,” Roger cuts him off. “What the fuck else is it, Brian? God, get _over_ yourself.”

Brian stares at him, uncomprehending. “It’s not that easy,” he says eventually.

“It could be,” Roger insists. “It’s only _you_ making it difficult. It was _you_ who fucked it up in the first place, _you_ who walked away, _you_ who never came back.”

“It’s _not that easy_,” Brian says again, louder this time.

“You still love him, don’t you?” Roger asks roughly.

Brian blinks at him, surprised to be asked because the answer’s so obvious. “Of course I do.”

“So that’s it, then,” Roger says, as if it’s really as simple as that. “How much longer are you going to continue hurting him like this? Hasn’t it gone on long enough?”

“I can’t go back to what we had,” Brian says, shaking his head. “Not after what I did.”

“Why _not_? Have you ever actually thought _why not_? It’s all just _you_, God! You’re so fucking selfish, Brian!” 

Roger’s raising his voice, people are starting to glance curiously in their direction. 

Roger notices and grabs Brian’s arm to yank him further down the path; they may not have toured or recorded in years but they’re still _Queen_, people often still recognise them and he doesn’t want the fucking press showing up while Freddie’s trying to recover. 

“How am I being _selfish_?” Brian hisses. “I’m the one who _hurt_ him, I’ve no right to—”

“You’re hurting him _now_,” Roger overrides him furiously. “You’re hurting him _more_. Every fucking day it’s just more of the same _shit_ because you can’t get your head out of your arse long enough to realise that you could fix this if you really fucking wanted to.”

“I can’t,” Brian says hollowly. “How could he ever trust me again?” 

“By _loving_ you,” Roger says bluntly. “That’s it. That’s all it takes. And he does.”

Brian doesn’t have a reply to that. He leans back and lets out a breath that shudders through him, drinks the last of his now-cold coffee and grimaces at it. He crumples up the cup and throws it in a bin as they pass by. Neither of them speak for a long time.

“Isn’t there anyone else?” Brian asks. He’s afraid to ask but he needs to know.

“For Freddie, you mean?” Roger says. “Well, let’s see, there was the guy who hit him—”

Brian sucks in a sharp breath. 

“The _other_ guy who hit him,” Roger continues furiously, “the guy who used to scream at him for every little thing, the guy who _bit his hand_ so fucking hard it _bled_—”

“God, _stop_,” Brian says quickly. His voice catches. “Fucking hell.” He has to stop walking, let that consume him for a moment. It’s torture to think of it, to think about Freddie dealing with that, putting up with it, accepting it because it’s what he thinks he deserves. What he thinks he’s good for. Freddie’s self-worth had always been fragile at best and Brian had tried so hard to show him how loved he was, how perfect, how deserving, and all he’d done in the end was shown Freddie that he lied, too. “I had no idea.”

“No,” Roger agrees. “No, because you haven’t been here. It’s been _me_ picking up the pieces, every goddamn fucking time. And it should’ve made me hate you, really. Because every time one of those assholes hurt him it was _still_ you he cried about.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian says uselessly. There’s a pain in his chest, spreading down through to his stomach, and a thick lump in the back of his throat he can’t dislodge. “Fuck. Someone _hit_ him?”

“More than one,” Roger says grimly.

“Christ.” Brian feels shaky and he has to sit down on a nearby bench, afraid that if he doesn’t he’ll fall down. “Oh, Freddie,” he breathes, pressing his fingertips to his lips. 

“You should have been there for him,” Roger says, his voice hard. “He needed you.”

“I know,” Brian says, trying to swallow. “I know.”

Roger stays silent, letting Brian drown in that thought for a long while.

“Well,” he says eventually, sitting down beside him. “You’re here now.”

“Here to hurt him again,” Brian says quietly, closing his eyes. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Yes you should,” Roger says firmly. “You’re the only one he wants. You’re exactly who he needs, especially right now. You’re the love of his fucking life, Brian.”

Brian doesn’t reply to that, can’t. It’s so hard to keep fighting that part of himself, the part that wants nothing more than to run upstairs to Freddie, gather him in his arms and tell him he’ll never leave him again. He’s been struggling with himself for years not to do that. Hovered over the phone hundreds of times, telling himself just a quick call would be fine, just a catch up. Just to make sure he’s okay. Knowing that it would only make things worse when he pulled away again. Because he just can’t let himself have that again, not after what he did the first time. He doesn’t deserve Freddie back.

But all he’s doing now, all he’s been doing this whole time, is continuing to hurt Freddie. So which is worse?

Brian rubs both hands over his face, trying to clear his head. “Do you think I deserve to be forgiven for what I did?” he asks quietly.

Roger doesn’t reply for a second. “What I think doesn’t matter. It’s your relationship, it’s between you and Fred.”

“Things would never go back to what they were,” Brian says. “The band, the touring...all of that’s gone.”

“I said goodbye to all that a long time ago, Brian. I’ve been working on new stuff, actually. You’d know if you’d bothered to get in contact at all,” Roger tells him.

Brian flinches. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me.”

Roger laughs, but it’s humourless. “Yeah, well. For a long time I didn’t. But it’s been years now. And Freddie’s still so fucking hung up on you I sort of made my peace that you’d be back sooner or later. It’s just you that hasn’t caught on yet.”

Roger leans back on the bench, stretching his legs out a bit, and it feels like some of the tension has started to slip away. “Have you done anything? Written anything, I mean? I never saw your name pop up anywhere.”

Brian shakes his head. “It’s not the same without…” He swallows. “I’m not even sure where my guitar is, actually. Somewhere in the basement.”

“That’s a shame,” Roger says quietly.

Brian snorts. “I never thought you liked my solos.”

“Well,” Roger shrugs. “Not when they’re fifteen minutes long. But we all needed that, didn’t we? Writing stuff. Being in the studio. It’s what we _do_. Just because Queen didn’t work out doesn’t mean we can’t ever do it again. Freddie’s in the studio, sometimes. Working with friends and stuff. I’m sure John does, too.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not a word,” Roger says, shaking his head. “I tried to get a message to him about Freddie but I don’t even know if that number’s right any more.”

Brian bites his lip. “I really fucked it all up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Roger agrees, because they both know it’s true. “But you can fix it with Fred, at least. Stop punishing yourself, stop punishing _him_. Sort it out. I know you want to.”

Brian doesn’t reply to that because he doesn’t know how. It’s true, he does want to. 

“You can be on Freddie-duty for a while, I haven’t seen my kids in days and I need a shower,” Roger tells him, standing up. “Phoebe’s at the house so don’t worry about feeding the cats or anything. He’ll probably come by this afternoon to see him, he usually does.”

Brian panics for a second, hurriedly getting up as well. “Wait, what? I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Roger speaks over him. “At least try. Tell Fred I’ll be back soon.” And with that he claps Brian on the shoulder and starts off down the path, back toward the hospital and the car park, leaving Brian standing alone, unsure what to do with himself from here.

He doesn’t go back inside right away. He gets up and wanders for a while, scuffs loose pebbles off the path with the toe of his shoe, tries to think. 

Eventually he gets up the courage to walk back to the hospital, but he only makes it as far as the gift shop. He looks around for azaleas but they don’t have any, just a few sparse-looking bouquets, the sort you’d get in a petrol station. Freddie would hate them.

Brian knows he’s procrastinating, putting off the inevitable, but he goes back outside and gets in his car. He needs to find some decent flowers, a proper bouquet. There are flower shops closer but he drives past them, drives all the way to the one he knows, just around the corner from the first place they ever lived in together, just the two of them. 

It hadn’t been much, a small flat they’d scraped together to rent during their early days. They’d made a record by then but they didn’t have much to show for it, still struggling to get enough money to buy groceries that would last a week, hunting behind the sofa for coins for the laundrette. But they’d been happy. They’d had _their_ bedroom rather than Brian’s or Freddie’s. Their toothbrushes had lived together in the bathroom they fought over every morning. They’d made love on just about every possible surface in that flat, some with more success than others. Brian remembers, as he drives past, one particularly memorable time when they’d tried to do it on the window ledge and the entire frame had come loose. 

They’d laughed about it until their sides ached and eaten nothing but bread and Brian’s mum’s food for a month so they could pay for the repair. 

Brian half wishes he could go back to that flat now, walk around and see the happier ghosts of themselves. But someone else lives there now; there’s washing hanging off the tiny balcony, plants in the windows.

He drives by without stopping, pulls up outside the same flower shop he used to find himself outside whenever they had an argument. He’s almost surprised to find it’s still here, but it is. It’s hardly changed. They’ve repainted, it looks cleaner, but it’s the same dark green, even the same charmingly rusty watering can full of flowers stood outside the door.

Brian ducks inside to the familiar sound of the bell he’d forgotten until just that second and breathes in the sweet scent of thousands of petals. He knows exactly what he wants but he takes his time looking around, gently running his fingertips over the sharp thorns of the roses. 

If he tried hard enough, he could pretend it’s ten years ago. He could pretend he’s only here because he forgot their anniversary (_again_), any of the ones Freddie liked to count. He’d been obsessed with marking occasions like that, any little thing. Their first kiss, their first date, their first fuck, their first _I love you_. Freddie remembered every one of them, treasured them like tiny holidays, and thought Brian would remember them, too.

But he didn’t. He could never keep track. He could have just written them down, could have done that small thing so he could make Freddie happy, but Brian had never even thought of that.

So he’d always be in here, even after they’d moved out of the flat, picking up flowers. Azaleas just to say sorry, so Freddie would kiss him sweetly and say, “Nevermind, darling, I know there’s barely enough room in that brain of yours for me!”. Roses if he was hoping Freddie would want to make up in the bedroom. Lilies, once, though Freddie had reacted to them like Brian’d brought a loaded gun into the house, throwing them out so the cats couldn’t get them.

Eventually a woman in an apron interrupts his reverie, politely clearing her throat at his elbow and offering to help once she has Brian’s attention. 

At his request, she makes up a beautiful bouquet and Brian tells her they’re lovely and pays but he walks out of the shop with them feeling like a fool. What is he thinking? That everything will be better if he just buys a few flowers and sits at Freddie’s bedside?

They lurk in the corner of his vision on the back to the hospital, out of place on the passenger seat of his car. He carries them all the way upstairs—an elderly woman even compliments him on how beautiful they are—but loses his nerve right outside Freddie’s room. 

He tosses them on top of a nearby vending machine and tries to forget that he’d ever had such a stupid thought. He’s furious with himself, suddenly, and all the sense Roger had made earlier is gone. Even if Freddie has forgiven him, Brian can’t just take advantage of that. Especially not knowing how Freddie still feels about him. Especially not with how Brian still feels about _him_. Why should he get a happy ending after all this?

He’s so caught up in his thoughts as he opens the door to Freddie’s room, it takes him a moment to register that there’s someone else already inside. It takes another moment to recognise him.

“_John_?” Brian gasps, startled.

“Brian,” John returns, abruptly standing up. He glances away, awkward, and Brian shifts uncomfortably in the doorway.

“How...how’ve you been?” Brian asks carefully. “How’re Ronnie and the kids?”

“They’re fine,” John tells him shortly. He doesn’t ask after Brian. “He hasn’t woken up,” he says instead, gesturing at Freddie.

“No,” Brian agrees; Freddie’s still sleeping peacefully, his head turned to one side, face relaxed despite all the bruises. “They sedated him earlier.”

John nods slowly and doesn’t say anything.

There’s a drawn-out moment of almost unbearably awkward silence and Brian’s about to break it to offer to leave when John beats him to it.

“Roger’s message said he’d lost memories,” he says suddenly. “How many?”

Brian lets the door close gently behind him. “A few years, five maybe,” he replies. “He doesn’t know about...us breaking up.”

“Us as in you two, or us as in Queen?” John asks shrewdly. 

“Both,” Brian admits. “He doesn’t remember them, anyway. I...I told him about us earlier.”

John’s lips go thin. “I’m guessing he forgave you all over again?” There’s steel in his voice Brian’s rarely heard before. 

Brian swallows. Somehow this is worse than Roger’s anger, so much worse. Roger had been angry then and is irritated with him now, but John is still _furious_.

“We didn’t really talk about it much,” Brian says, putting his hands in his pockets. He’s suddenly very glad he didn’t walk in here with flowers. 

John gives a derisive huff through his nose but doesn’t comment any further. 

“Look, I’ll go,” Brian says, because he can’t stand this and he doesn’t want Freddie waking up to it, either. 

“I think that’d be best,” John tells him. 

Brian holds his tongue and turns away, but just before the door closes John speaks again.

“You never deserved him,” he says quietly, coldly, and the words follow Brian out into the corridor, all the way downstairs to a rickety table in one of the cafeterias. 

He’s right, is the thing. Brian had thought that a lot back then. It had plagued him, actually. Constantly wondering what someone like Freddie Mercury was doing with someone like him. Other people used to wonder, too, and not that quietly. Freddie’s ‘friends’ who all usually thought he’d be better off with _them_. 

And Freddie had never, not once, let one of those comments pass by undisputed but they still ate into Brian, wormed their way into his heart and festered there. Rotted everything from the inside out, until even the good things turned sour. They fought a lot more, in the later days. They’d have arguments every other week, and not their usual blazing rows across the studio or in a dressing room backstage, yelling each other down about chord changes and tempos and what songs were getting cut.

No, they argued about real things. Freddie’s friends used to come up a lot. So did Brian forgetting their anniversaries. Brian had asked Freddie more than once if he was cheating on him and Freddie had categorically denied it every time, had been shocked to learn that Brian even thought that.

And Brian _had_ believed him, but there had been no shaking the paranoia that would soon begin to creep back in after they’d made up.

It had all just sort of happened with Anita. 

It had never felt good, not even the first time. Brian had been sick after, horrified at what he’d done, but he’d still done it again, too deep in it by then to back out. It hadn’t even lasted a month. They’d spent a handful of nights together and one awful lunch before Brian couldn’t take it any more. He’d broken things off with Anita and confessed to Freddie that same night.

Even after everything, how awful things had been between them, Freddie hadn’t seen it coming.

Brian doesn’t know how long he sits there lost in thought. Someone brings him a coffee and squeezes his shoulder and Brian looks around to tell them he doesn’t deserve their sympathy, but they’re already walking away.

He doesn’t drink the coffee, just watches it slowly stop steaming as it goes cold before his eyes. 

He thinks distantly that he should probably eat something but his stomach is such a twisted knot there’s no way he’d manage it. 

The cafeteria has filled and emptied and filled again by the time someone interrupts him.

“Brian?”

It’s Phoebe. Brian has no idea when he’d even arrived. He looks the same as ever, still of a height with Brian when Brian stands up, startled, to greet him.

He feels a slight pang when he looks at him, remembering many a happy morning of breakfasts prepared by Phoebe, lunches with all their friends, Christmases spent in silly hats that never sat right on Brian’s hair. 

“Phoebe,” Brian says, a tad hoarsely. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sat here in silence. “How’ve you been?”

“Well,” Phoebe says, with a soft sigh. “Until a few days ago, very good. What about you?”

The question feels loaded and Brian looks away. “I’ve been better,” he admits. 

“Yes, I suppose you have,” Phoebe agrees, taking the seat opposite Brian.

Brian sits back down, for lack of anything else to do, and looks over at him. “How much do you hate me?” he asks.

Phoebe laughs. “I don’t hate you, Brian,” he tells him. “Never have. Don’t know that I could.”

“But I hurt him.” It’s as simple as that. Black and white.

“No, I don’t deny that,” Phoebe says. “But so have a lot of other people. He’s hurt people, himself. You made a mistake.”

Brian purses his lips. “A big mistake.”

“You’d never do that to him again.” It’s not a question; he’s already sure.

“I’d die before I hurt him again,” Brian says anyway, because he has to make sure that’s known, wants to hear himself say it and know it’s true.

“Well then.” Phoebe sits back in the uncomfortable plastic cafeteria chair. 

Brian purses his lips. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“It could be,” Phoebe says.

“No, I—”

“_Brian_,” Phoebe interrupts. “I’m telling you, it could be. I know him, I live with him, I listen to him every day. He loves you. Madly.”

Brian rubs both hands over his face. “That’s the thing,” he whispers. Can only whisper, his voice won’t seem to stretch to anything else.

“That’s the _only_ thing,” Phoebe says firmly. “That’s all there is. You’re here. That says a lot to me.” He gives a rueful chuckle. “I didn’t think you’d come. I thought Roger was wasting his time—you haven’t been around in so long. We all thought, Freddie especially, that you’d moved on.”

Brian shakes his head and has to swallow. “No,” he says, pained. “Never. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to,” Phoebe says, reaching out and squeezing his hand. “Go to him. _Please_. John’s left. Freddie’s awake, he’s been asking for you non-stop.”

With that he gets up, tucks his chair neatly under the table, and walks out with nothing more than a quick nod goodbye to Brian, who’s still sat frozen.

He remains there for another few minutes before the thought of Freddie, awake and desperately asking where he is, drives him to his feet and into the nearest elevator.

There’s a nurse just leaving Freddie’s room when he arrives and he slips in after her, so Freddie doesn’t notice him for a moment. He’s sat up in bed, a nest of pillows behind him, with a magazine across his lap that he’s boredly flicking the pages of without really looking at them.

“Freddie,” Brian says softly.

Freddie’s head jerks up and he gives a gentle gasp. “Oh, Bri!” he breathes. “I thought you’d gone.” His voice wobbles and he suddenly closes his eyes, face crumpling with tears. 

“Oh, no,” Brian says, crossing the room to reach him and taking the seat at the side of the bed. Everything in him wants to gather Freddie in his arms, pull him close and run a hand through his hair and promise that he’s never going to leave, but he holds himself back. He just takes his hand instead and Freddie squeezes it. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

“Please,” Freddie says shakily, pulling on his hand. “Please just hug me, just _once_, darling—”

Brian’s heart breaks and he’s on his feet. He tries to be careful of Freddie’s bruises but Freddie’s heedless, clutching him like a lifeline, clinging on. Brian has to brace himself awkwardly so he won’t fall, the muscle in his calf protesting, but he doesn’t care; this is everything. Freddie smells faintly of hospital but also of _Freddie_ and he feels just the same as he always did, despite the tubes and the bandages.

Brian’s breath escapes him very shakily and he buries his face in Freddie’s neck, not sure who’s deriving more comfort from the embrace. It’s been years since he had Freddie in his arms like this, almost long enough to forget how much Brian _needs_ it, needs _him_.

“John—told me—who it was,” Freddie stammers out through hitched breaths and Brian tries to pull away but Freddie only holds him more tightly.

Brian closes his eyes when he feels tears prick and rubs his hand up and down Freddie’s back. “I wish he hadn’t,” he says quietly.

“Are—” Freddie cuts himself off and Brian can feel him swallow, can feel how unsteadily he’s breathing, the heart-rate monitor starting to beep quicker and quicker in the background. Brian’s afraid someone will come in and pull him away again.

“Ssh,” Brian tries to soothe him, his hand stopping at the top of Freddie’s spine and rubbing against the back of his neck. “Freddie, please, just breathe.”

Freddie does, pulling in as big of a breath as he can manage. “Are you...is she...are you—with her now?” he manages to get out, and Brian can hear how badly every word hurts him.

“No,” Brian says at once, shaking his head and holding him tighter. “No. You’re the only one for me, Freddie. There’s no-one else. I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart.”

Freddie lets out a tiny sob, muffled against Brian. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, Brian. I understand.”

“It’s not okay,” Brian tells him. He pulls back a tiny bit, having to pull hard so Freddie will loosen his grip enough but he needs to look him in the eye. “It’s not, Freddie. I can’t ever tell you how sorry I am. But I…” He cuts himself off, throat closing as his eyes well again. This time he can’t stop them and feels them warm down his cheeks until Freddie brushes them away.

“What, darling?”

“I _swear_,” Brian says stiltedly. “If you’ll let me. I’ll spend _every day_ for the rest of my life making it up to you.”

He can sense Freddie holding his breath and leans in to brush their noses together, closing his eyes. “Every single day,” he whispers. “I swear to you. I’m so sorry.”

Freddie finally breathes out, the air ghosting over Brian’s mouth, and their lips touch just gently. “Just stay with me, darling,” Freddie sighs, kissing him so softly it’s like he’s frightened to. “Please stay with me.”

“I will,” Brian promises, shifting so he can lay beside Freddie on the bed and hold him properly. “I’m going to.”

Freddie closes his eyes and rests his head against Brian’s chest and Brian’s arm comes up to wrap around him. He thinks Freddie might already be nearly asleep but he kisses the top of his head and gathers up some courage.

“I love you,” he says, for the first time in years. “I’ve never stopped. I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” Freddie whispers. 

And Brian realises, quite suddenly, that it really is as simple as that.


End file.
